The Art of Juggling
by myheartisyours0523
Summary: In which Blaine gets clingy, Sam gets jealous, and Kurt manages to juggle both.
1. Clingy

**Disclaimer - I don't own it. **

**Rated T for obvious reasons.  
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**Summary - Blaine gets clingy, Sam gets jealous. Klaine, Hevans. **

**Inspired and based roughly on Dear Near Scary's "When He Calls Me Baby", taken in slightly different directions, for a slightly longer story (thank you!). **

**Also, Kurt hasn't transferred to Dalton.  
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"Oh, dear God, hide me."

He ducked behind Sam's blonde head, pressing his warm cheek between two broad shoulder blades. He realized that _Sam _might not have been the best hiding spot; his head swiveled a little, shooting the soprano a confused look over his own shoulder. Kurt wondered if he could be any more obvious.

"Hey, it's Sam, right?"

That voice.

Kurt clung to the back of Sam's tee shirt, face paling.

It was the voice the echoed over his phone at least _eight _times a day.

"Yeah?"

That scent.

That manly, designer scent that had, lately, began to cling to Kurt's clothes.

"Have you seen Kurt?"

His name.

His name, which had recently been rolled off that tongue far too many times.

"Nope. He might have gone home with Finn, though, since they live together now."

There was a little huff of impatience. Kurt held his breath, fingertips turning white from squeezing the cotton between them. He prayed to McQueen that he didn't look down; Kurt wasn't sure that his Prada boots were hidden well behind Sam's Air Jordan's. He waited for the sound of the retreat, the soft click on tile, with bated breath.

"If you see him...Could you tell him to check his emails? And his text messages? He hasn't been...Well, anyway, I guess I'll see you later, Sam." The second-string quarterback moved a little; Kurt knew Blaine had offered his hand (because he was _such a gentleman_) and they were shaking.

Then the withdrawal. Kurt peered around Sam's shoulder, and watched as the back of Blaine's curly head retreated further and further away.

Relieved, the soprano let out a long sigh of contentment."Thank Gucci, I was beginning to think I'd never get away from - "

"Aren't you being a little mean?" Sam shook away from him, pulling his tee shirt out of Kurt's grasp, and turned to meet his teal eyes. "Why don't you just tell him to leave you alone?"

"Because," Kurt grumbled, unhappy with the suddenly turn of events, "you don't tell your boyfriend to leave you alone."

Sam's eyebrows disappeared into his Bieber bangs, and he crossed his muscly arms over his chest. "Oh, well, there's this great thing called _breaking up_."

Kurt rolled his knuckles into his own palm, wondering vaguely how exactly he was going to explain his situation. He wanted to walk away, to come up with an excuse to run, but Sam's profile was set; he wasn't about to let Kurt avoid confrontation. So drawing himself to his full height, he plunged forward. "Well, Sam, there's also this thing called being _lonely_, and it's extremely easy to be if you break up with your _boyfriend_. Understand? I'm tired of being alone, no matter how annoying and clingy and utterly, disgustingly _perfect _Blaine is. Okay? I'm going to go now."

Except he didn't "go" anywhere, because Sam caught him by the arm.

"Kurt." His green eyes were intoxicating; Kurt blinked a few times to steady himself. "We need to talk."

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	2. Intoxicating

**Disclaimer - I don't own it. **

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Kurt liked Blaine.

He really did.

Blaine was sticky sweet. He complimented, he held open doors, he always called. He asked about Kurt's day, offered advice, and chose not to carry on about himself. He called Kurt beautiful, held his hand, and cooked dinner every Friday night.

When they kissed, it was soft, smooth, and entirely too short. Romantic and tender, but not nearly enough to suffice the burning fire, the longing, the pure _n__eed_ emanated from every pore on Kurt's lean body. Passion, apparently, was overrated at Dalton.

So when Sam's fingers, warm, bit into Kurt's forearm as he was dragged toward the auditorium, lacking delicacy, he couldn't help but feel a little...thrilled.

Sam's eyes, the way they held anything (a little irritation, a little anger, a little amusement) but _softness, _intrigued him.

The way he smelled like Axe, like man, instead of designer products, made the hairs on his arms stand up.

The way he moved bluntly, brusquely, lacking grace, sent a little shiver down his spine.

Kurt Hummel could _definitely _get used to Sam Evans.

His eyes found Sam's full lips, his large mouth, and realized it was moving.

"...And it's just ridiculous that you're - Kurt, are you even listening to me?"

"No." It slipped out before he could stop himself; Sam scoffed. "I mean, of course. Yes, I agree, completely ridiculous."

Sam pulled open the auditorium door, one eyebrow raised into his platinum bangs, and gave Kurt a nudge toward a seat in the back row. "So, you're breaking up with him, then?"

"Ha. For a very terrible second, I thought you were being serious."

Sam dropped onto the velvet seat beside him. "Kurt, I said, it's completely ridiculous for you to be with him if you don't even like the guy. In fact, it's mean and morally wrong."

"I feel like we've had this conversation before." Kurt couldn't help but start to feel annoyed at Sam's adamant argument. Who was he - the perfect blonde, straight guy with the beautiful, perfect blonde girlfriend - to judge Kurt's admittedly questionable methods? "You have no idea how it feels to be alone, do you?"

Sam's green eyes locked onto his for a millisecond, the bright color darkening slightly (with what, Kurt couldn't tell), and then looked toward the stage. "All I'm saying is, you shouldn't be leading the guy on! It's not very admirable, Kurt. You could find someone else, someone who you like more -"

At this suggestion, Kurt snorted in a very unattractive and unKurt-like way. "You seem to lack any type of brains. Who, in this entire state, would want to date me, the Resident Fairy, other than sweet, caring Blaine?"

Sam gaped at him for a second, physically unable to come up with a coherent answer other than, "Kurt, you're being stupid!"

"No, Sam, _you're _being stupid." He jumped to his feet, his Gucci scarf flapping hard against his thin chest. Sam's eyes widened, obviously unhappy with his reaction. "I understand that there's probably some man code that you have to follow in these situations, but before you run off and tell Blaine everything, I - I have to go."

But then Sam had caught him by the front of his Prada cardigan, both fists clutching the one hundred percent cashmere, and Kurt was being pulled forward. They were so close that their noses bumped and Kurt could count every single eyelash that framed Sam's intense emerald eyes. He didn't though; he had lost himself somewhere in the deep green irises.

"Kurt." It sounded sexy, that one syllable word, rolled carefully off Sam's tongue. Kurt felt goosebumps erupt on his skin. "If I see him holding you again, I think I'm going to have to punch something."

Kurt felt his heart jump into his throat. He could feel Sam's breath ghosting over his face, the heat from his fingers burning through Kurt's cardigan.

"And God help me, if he even tries to kiss you..." Sam's voice shuddered a little, and his eyes flickered down, sweeping over Kurt's parted lips. "Do you have any idea how it makes me feel when I see you together?"

As Rachel and Finn flashed into his mind, Kurt thought maybe he did. He reached up, placing his hands on Sam's, which were still clutching cashmere. Swallowing slowly, he began to pry the fingers away from his shirt.

"You're going to wrinkle it."

He guessed that maybe the little sentence had been the straw that broke the camel's back; Sam plunged forward just then, capturing his lips, and capturing the last bit of self control Kurt had been saving for his storm-out.

The soprano's toes curled in his fancy boots; he was being kissed like he'd never been kissed before.

It was rough, deprived, and intoxicating. Like they would never see each other again, like it was their first and _last _kiss.

Sam's hands were everywhere. Tracing his jaw, pushing through his perfect hair, digging into the small of his back, slipping down into the back pockets of his designer jeans. Every nerve felt like it was exploding; Kurt gasped into Sam's mouth when he bit down (nowhere near gently) on the surprised soprano's pouty bottom lip.

So different from kissing Blaine. So different from sweet, from gentlemanly, from soft.

So different, and Kurt never wanted it to stop.

Which is what, seconds later, happened.

"Shit." Sam fell back a few steps, covering his swelling lips with one hand and steadying himself with the other. Kurt's chest was heaving. "Shit, Kurt, why do you have to be so beautiful all the time?"

"Hello?"

The auditorium door opened, squeaking on its old hinges. A head of curly hair and a set of hazel eyes peered around the wooden frame.

"_Kurt?" _

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	3. Fire

**Disclaimer - I don't own it. **

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Sam liked the taste of Kurt's lips, the sweetness contrasting with the rough way they were kissing.

He liked Kurt's hair, how it felt under his fingers.

He liked Kurt's hips, the way they rolled into his.

He liked Kurt's hot skin, pale and smooth, no longer hidden under the layers of designer clothes.

He liked Kurt's breathy moan, his long, thin fingers as the raked through Sam's blonde hair, his firm ass.

He didn't like the way Kurt jerked out of his grasp, making Sam's teeth graze his bottom lip and give him the tiniest of cuts on the pouty skin.

He didn't like the way Kurt's cheeks flushed, obviously ashamed.

He didn't like the way Blaine, oblivious to their dirty deeds, stuck his perfect head into the auditorium.

He didn't like the way Kurt smiled, almost brightly, in Blaine's direction and said, "Blaine! I was just looking for you!"

Because he most definitely hadn't been.

Kurt's booted foot came down hard on Sam's toes. He cleared his throat. "Uh, I found him, Blaine. He was...busy."

"I can see that." The words weren't exactly cold, but they weren't friendly either. Sam glanced down and realized his shirt was flipped halfway up his mid-drift, flashing his solid stomach muscles. Kurt reached over and tugged it down.

"So, apply that lotion twice a day and that should get rid of your bacne." He said, a smile pulling at the corner of his pretty mouth at Sam's indignant and confused expression. "Bacne, Evans. Back acne? Oh, never mind." He threw Blaine a smirk, like what-can-you-do?-all-jocks-are-stupid.

There was a long silence, Blaine and Kurt sharing that little, knowing smile. Finally, Sam cleared his throat.

"Yeah, I think I'm going to go now. Thanks, I guess." He shrugged one shoulder and reached over to smooth Kurt's collar. Blaine visibly stiffened. Sam held back a grin. Strolling toward the door, he made sure to bump Blaine's shoulder with his. "Oh, and Kurt? You kinda have sex hair."

He was satisfied completely by the bright shade of red that Kurt's cheeks flushed before the auditorium door swung shut.

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Blaine dug his fingernails into his palm

He was trying - very, very hard - not to be suspicious or, he realized, jealous.

Because Kurt, who's teal eyes were locked onto Sam's face, had a very unfamiliar expression on his flushed profile. He couldn't place the emotion swirling in the soprano's irises; he just knew he'd give anything to have Kurt look at him that way.

"Yeah, I think I'm going to go now."

He purposefully knocked into Blaine on his way out. The Dalton attendee refused to let his indignation show on his chiseled face.

"Oh, and Kurt? You kinda have sex hair."

Kurt promptly turned scarlet. There was a silence, long and terrible, during which Blaine stood still, blinking at his boyfriend.

Because Kurt never let _anyone _touch his hair.

Ever.

But someone had definitely been running their fingers through it, pulling it out of style, tousling it into next Saturday.

And Kurt had obviously enjoyed it, by the look of his guilty red face.

Blaine glanced once over him. Three buttons, buttoned wrong.

He felt his heart drop into his stomach, like he'd missed the last step on the stairwell. His fingernails, still biting into his palm, broke skin.

Kurt smoothed his shirt and opened his swollen mouth to speak. "I-"

"Do I want to hear this?"

The soprano bit his bottom lip, considering the question. The color was draining away from his face now; a look of determination was set in his teal eyes. "Despite your obvious assumptions - which, by the way, make an ass out of U and me - this is not what it appears, by first glance, to be."

Blaine crossed his arms over his chest. "How so?"

"Sam helped me clean up after a slushie facial."

"A what?"

A little smile ticked at the corner of Kurt's mouth, but his jaw was set, clenched. Blaine realized he had unceremoniously stepped into sensitive territory. "The neanderthals at this school find hilarity in throwing cups of frozen high glucose corn syrup at Glee kids."

Blaine felt his heart slowly return to his chest, anger and hurt replaced by resentment. He took a few steps toward Kurt, arms uncrossing. "Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'. How eloquent of you. You always know exactly what to say." The soprano combed his fingers through his hair, trying desperately to put it back into place. Blaine gave a wry smile.

"Sorry. I'm just surprised."

"You would be. With that amazing Dalton tolerance policy and all, why shouldn't you be?"

Blaine gently pulled Kurt's hand away from his hair and held it between his own. The slightly guilty expression returned to Kurt's features. "Kurt, really, I'm sorry. For assuming stupid things. That was jerky of me."

Sighing, Kurt pulled his hand away. "I forgive you."

"Good."

But when he kissed Kurt then, a I'm-such-an-idiot-for-thinking-dumb-things kiss, he couldn't help but notice the little cut on his bottom lip.

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Sam wiped the sweat off his forehead, his soaked bangs out of his eyes.

He always worked too hard when he was upset. Even Puck hadn't been able to keep up with him on the football field. He'd achieved more pull-ups then everyone else on the team.

"Jesus, man, who pissed in your cereal?" Puck was bent over, elbows balanced carefully on his knees, chest heaving. Finn was in a spread-eagle on the rough, dry grass.

"Yeah, dude, where'd you get all the motivation?" The Quarterback mumbled into the ground, titling his head up just enough to catch Sam shrug one shoulder.

"I had a crappy morning." He grabbed the toe of his Air Jordan and stretched his quad, rubbing one of his eyes with the opposite hand. Finn rolled over and groaned. Puck nudged him in the side with his foot.

"Dude, here comes your stepbrother. Better look tough, you know he likes to gossip."

Sam had to shield his eyes to make out the slim figure strutting toward them from the sidelines. He felt his breath catch in his throat and his stomach twist terribly when he realized someone was following closely behind him.

"Hey, Kurt." Finn dragged himself upright, using Puck's shoulder as leverage.

"Finn, you do realize that you're my ride home?" He had his arms crossed over his chest in a defensive manner (though Sam hoped it was to keep Blaine from holding his hand) and his teal eyes were locked carefully on Finn's face, not even sparing a glance at Puck, who taken that moment to steal Finn's spot on the dry grass.

"I'm tired. And I'm going over to Rachel's later. Couldn't Blaine bring you home? He has a car."

Blaine cleared his throat. "Tried that. He doesn't want me driving five minutes out of my way. Which is completely ridiculous, in my opinion."

"Been doing some pretty ridiculous things lately, haven't you, Kurt?"

He hadn't meant to say it; something about Blaine's puppy-dog eyes and annoyingly good looks made something snap inside.

Four heads swiveled toward him (even Puck, who was still face-planted into the ground, managed to look up). Blaine's hand found the crook of the soprano's elbow, clutching it defensively, possessively. Kurt gave a little cough. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'll give you a ride home." Sam said suddenly, surprising himself and Blaine, whose fingers seemed to tighten considerably on Kurt's arm.

Kurt's eyes widened in surprise. "You will?"

"Yeah, you guys live, like, five minutes away from me." More like thirty. But Kurt didn't need to know that. The soprano nodded stiffly, shaking Blaine's hand off his arm, and jerked his head toward the parking lot.

"Let's go then, Ricky Bobby."

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He wasn't sure what he had been expecting.

Maybe a old truck, rusty, with a bad muffler and a peeling bumper stick stuck to the chipping paint.

Fast food wrappers, sports gear, dirty magazines. The stuff that was hidden under any adolescent boy's bed.

In reality, though, Sam's car was a Ford Focus. Clean, organized, and almost empty, the small car still smelled new, though the odometer told him otherwise.

Kurt buckled himself tightly, fingers clutching the thin strap that held him in. The unbearable need to lean over and press a kiss into the jock's clenched jaw sent a wave of guilt crashing over him; what was he doing? He had perfect, perfect Blaine. Why would he need anyone different?

"He's a little possessive." Sam said as he pulled out of the parking lot, somehow reading Kurt's mind.

"I told him that you were helping me clean up after a slushie." He pulled a few fingers through his perfect hair. Sam's eyes were locked carefully on the road. "I'm not a cheap whore, Sam Evans. I _do not _cheat on my boyfriends."

Sam's knuckles clenched on the steering wheel. "I know, Kurt. I just don't understand - "

"Left here."

He forgot his blinker, and the turn was much too sharp. Kurt clung to his seat belt. "Why are you leading him on?"

Kurt sighed. "I feel like this is getting a little redundant. Turn right at this light."

"Because you're afraid of being alone?"

"Partly. And partly because Blaine is nice to me, Sam. He's handsome and sweet and exactly what I need right now. Something not complicated. Something simple." No one could say that Kurt hadn't been through a lot, and by the defeated look on Sam's face, he wasn't about to say differently.

"You're right." But that didn't mean he liked it. His knuckles had turned white on the steering wheel, his jawline clenched tightly. An uncomfortable silence stretched over them, empty and full at the same time. Sam's green eyes left the road for a split second, connecting fiercely with wide teal ones, making Kurt feel, in that moment, completely vulnerable. Naked.

He clutched the seat belt for salvation.

Sam's eyes returned to the road. "Which one?"

"142."

He pulled up to the curb, just by the mailbox, and cut the engine. They sat in silence, staring out the windshield at nothing in particular.

"That can't happen again."

Sam's hands dropped away from the wheel, folding carefully in his lap. His eyes met Kurt's again. "Yeah, I know."

"Never again, Sam. No matter what."

"I know, Kurt. No matter how much I want to, no matter how much Blaine drives me completely insane, no matter how unhappy I know you are...It won't happen."

"Good."

"Good."

But then Kurt was lunging across the car, hands grasping desperately at the front of the jock's tee shirt, pulling him closer. Their lips crashed together, raucous and hungry, sending a shiver down Kurt's spine. Sam was like fire; hot and captivating. Raging. Addicting.

His fingers found the edge of Kurt's shirt, diving under the fabric, the warmth of his hands contrasting with the soprano's cool skin.

Kurt moaned into his mouth.

Sam's fingers were pressing into his waist, holding him tightly, like he never wanted to let him go.

And even as Sam's lips moved down, nipping roughly at his soft neck, Kurt couldn't bring himself to feel the least bit guilty.

Because Blaine never made him feel this way.

Because it felt so amazing, so new, so beautiful, so _rugged, _that Kurt just couldn't feel ashamed.

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	4. Transfer

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Sam slipped into the seat behind Kurt.

No one ever seemed to notice, but he _always _sat behind Kurt.

Because Kurt was beautiful, even from behind.

His soft brown hair, styled perfectly.

The little bend in his spine as he leaned toward Mercedes, whispering something into her ear.

His lips, full, how they formed every word.

The snide little smirk that filled them when Puck said something particularly hilarious about Rachel's attitude or clothing.

The way he tucked his feet under his chair, carefully, like it actually mattered how they folded against each other.

The way sometimes - _sometimes _- he turned and gave the tiniest of waves in Sam's direction.

Sam _always _sat behind Kurt.

But even the soprano failed to notice.

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Kurt picked at his cuticles, teal eyes glued to his fingers. Beside him, Mercedes gave a little snore.

"...And that is why I should do at least eight different Barbara numbers at Nationals this year, because everyone knows..."

Rachel had decided that, in Mr. Shue's tardiness, she would subject them to unnecessary chatter. Kurt let his eyes wander a bit; Quinn was subtly playing Never I Have Ever with Santana and Britney, Mike Chang was carefully re-writing his English essay, and Tina had been trying to fix her Jack the Pumpkin King bracelet for nearly ten minutes.

Twisting carefully in his seat, he caught Sam's green eyes. Kurt had felt them burning into the back of his head for the entirety of Rachel's spiel. Tucking the corner of his mouth, he managed to smile lightly, slyly. Sam leaned forward in his chair, his breath ghosting the shell of Kurt's ear.

"...So, basically, I should be wearing a long, shiny gown-"

"Guys!" Mr. Shue's boots made little snapping noises against the tile; he was holding a stack of sheet music. "Sorry for the delay. I was taking care of some transfer business."

Kurt's heart dropped into his stomach. Rachel sniffed, irritated with being interrupted, and dropped herself back into the seat beside Finn.

"Transfer?" Quinn's long eyelashes fluttered a little at the word. Mr. Shue's grin was wide enough to cure world hunger.

"Yes, Quinn, transfer! Everyone please welcome our new member..." All eyes were averted to the door, as the sound of footsteps had started to reach their ears. Kurt was holding his breath. "...Blaine."

The soprano let his eyes snap shut. There was the soft twitter of clapping; the footsteps had ceased. Behind him, there was a sharp intake of breath.

"Thanks, everyone. I'm ecstatic to be here." The footsteps resumed, and someone dropped carefully into the empty seat beside him. Blaine leaned close to him. "I did this for us, Kurt."

He opened his eyes.

"Alright, guys, let's discuss the new voice and how we're going to incorporate it into ..."

And as Mr. Shue, Blaine, and Rachel (a trio that would prove to be both extremely annoying _and _ingenious when they were all on the same page) dived into a exciting debate on set lists, Kurt wondered silently why the universe was out to get him.

Until, of course, something warm and moist pressed into the soft skin of his neck.

Kurt's eyes fluttered quickly around the choir room, but everyone seemed to be occupied with something else; no one spared a glance toward Kurt or Sam, who was sucking a sore spot just below Kurt's left ear.

Even Blaine, who was sitting directly beside Kurt, was so caught up in the excitement of being able to do a Michael Buble song that his eyes never strayed to them once.

Sam's talented mouth grazed his hairline, nipping at his skin, sending goosebumps down his arms.

His hands (_God, his hands) _had snaked their way under his Calvin Klein tee shirt, tracing circles on his smooth skin, following his nearly nonexistent curves, finding the edge making Kurt give a little moan.

Which made Sam's hands withdraw immediately, his warm mouth leaving Kurt's skin.

Seconds later, Blaine's eyes landed on his boyfriend. "Doesn't that sound fantastic?"

"Y-yes. Fantastic-c." Fantastic? Maybe, but not as fantastic as Sam's fingers, which had decided to continue to trace their way down to the small of Kurt's back. Too preoccupied, Blaine didn't catch the little break in his voice that was a product of Sam's skillful fingers starting to slide up his spine.

Then, lips. Lips, pressed against the very top of his spinal cord.

Kurt shivered.

"Okay, remember: rehearsal tomorrow. Come early!" Their faithful teacher waved fist fulls of sheet music above his head. "You're dismissed!"

Blaine grabbed Kurt's hand and laced their fingers together. Sam's lips were wrenched away; Kurt wanted to pout at the loss of contact.

But the thrill, the warmth, the happiness all managed to be sucked away by five little words, spoken carefully off the tongue of his perfect boyfriend.

"We need to talk. Now."

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**Ohhh dear. **

**Poor Blaine, I feel bad.**

**More about his side of things next chapter?**

**Possibly, if I get reviewwwsss. ;)  
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	5. Flowers

**Disclaimer - I don't own it. **

**A/N: I was informed in a review that Kurt is a counter tenor? I did some research, and there's a lot of different sites saying different things, so I wasn't sure...Does anyone know? **

**I think I'm just going to stick with soprano for now, because I like the way it sounds. :) **

**Enjoy!  
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Blaine kept his head down as they shoved their way through the crowded hallways. He was holding Kurt's thin fingers, but they kept slipping out of his grasp. Like Kurt wasn't even trying to keep them for separating. Like he didn't care.

Blaine swallowed a mouthful of doubt and hurt. Now, in the hallway, wasn't the time.

Because Blaine was a gentleman, and he didn't break down in front of the entirety of his new study body.

So he tightened his hold on Kurt's hand - not _too_ tight, though - and pulled him into a dark classroom. His fingers fumbled a little, dropping Kurt's and searching desperately for the light switch.

When he found the light switch, Kurt was picking boredly at his fingernails four or five feet away from him. Blaine sighed.

"Kurt." He looked away from his nails, teal eyes flashing up. Blaine felt those damn butterflies start in his stomach. The butterflies that always appeared when Kurt was around. "What's on your mind?"

"Honestly?" His voice was biting. Blaine winced. "I'm wondering why you dragged me into the Chemistry lab for no reason other than to ask me what's on my mind. Which seems like a pretty ridiculous reason, if you ask me." He smoothed his expensive shirt, then his hair. "If you have something to say, just say it, Blaine. Don't beat around the bush here."

"I transferred."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Oh, did you? I hadn't noticed."

"Why are you so angry with me?" Blaine felt the butterflies die; they were replaced suddenly with indignation and irritation. Kurt sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

"I'm not angry with you." He said quietly, sticking his hands into his pockets (his pants were so tight that he couldn't fit his entire hand into them) uncharacteristically. "I just...Sometimes, I just don't understand you."

Blaine pushed a hand through his curly hair. He could, he realized, relate impeccably. Because sometimes Kurt didn't make sense to him, either. "We haven't had a _real _conversation in awhile, Kurt. We're not on the same page anymore. We don't argue, but we're not happy. It needs to change."

"And you thought transferring was going to fix that?" The soprano shook his head. For some reason, Blaine instantly felt incredibly foolish. "We're in school, Blaine. We probably have different classes. My friends, Glee club, they don't need to be involved, and as soon as one of them overhears or sees as 'talking'-" He held up air-quotes at the word, spitting it acidly from his lips "-then everyone will know."

Blaine sighed. "Fine. I'm sorry. I just don't want to lose you."

And in that instant, the guilty look returned on Kurt's pretty face. Blaine crossed the floor, closing the space between them, and wrapped his arms carefully around the soprano's waist. Leaning forward, he pressed the lightest of kisses onto his forehead. Kurt closed his eyes, letting his head drop onto Blaine's shoulder.

"I'll call you later tonight, okay? We can talk then."

Blaine felt Kurt nod against his neck. '

And for that moment, he was happy.

Happy to have Kurt in his arms, happy that they weren't fighting.

Happy that no one was interrupting them, that they could just stand there, holding each other.

And then the bell rang.

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Kurt carefully untied the laces on his shoes, forcing his feet out of the leather prisons. Wearing new shoes was always painful, but always worth it.

The rain outside pattered softly against the small basement window, sliding lightly down the glass.

Upstairs, Finn was singing loudly to Pink Floyd. And, by the thumps that were sounding through Kurt's ceiling, he was dancing too.

A little smile snuck its way onto his lips before he could stop it; living with Finn was a new adventure every day.

His step-brother opened the basement door. "Hey, Kurt?"

He stopped undoing his tie and peered up the stairs. "Yeah, Finn?"

"I'm going to hang with Puck, alright? I'll be back by curfew or something."

"You'd better be. Carol will kill you."

"Yeah, yeah. Make sure you leave the heat on. It's super cold outside _and _it's raining."

"What a feat. Cold _and _raining? Insanity."

"I'm just going to ignore you now."

"Have fun."

"Thanks."

Kurt grinned widely as the door swung shut, and footsteps trampled across the carpet above him.

Carefully, he untied his tie and folded it neatly on his bed. Next, his Gucci jacket and tight Prada jeans were tucked into his larger-than-life closet. As he pulled on his Juicy sweatpants and "junk" tee shirt, he savored the comfortable fabric on his skin, the way it slipped softly over him in a way that his tight pants and expensive shirts never could.

Kurt loved coming home, because it meant he was, finally, comfortable.

Above his head, the sound of the doorbell seeped through the ceiling. Kurt sighed, pushed a hand through his hair (which was uncommonly messy) and padded carefully up the stairs to the front door.

"I swear, Finn, if you've locked yourself out again, I'll - "

Except it wasn't Finn. The words died in his throat.

Because standing in front of him, soaked to the bone, holding a bouquet of positively drenched flowers, was Sam Evans.

"Hi."

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**Ohhh dear. **

**Poor Blaine, I feel bad.**

**More about his side of things next chapter?**

**Possibly, if I get reviewwwsss. ;)  
**


	6. Missed

**Disclaimer - I don't own it. **

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"Hi."

Kurt felt his heart drop into his stomach.

"I know this is weird. I walked from school and waited for Finn to leave. I feel like we need to...talk or something." Sam held out the flowers, and a few droplets of water hit Kurt's Versace socks. He blushed red and tossed them over the side of the porch. "It wasn't raining when I left."

A smile ticked in the corner of Kurt's mouth, despite his surprise and immediate panic. "I guess it's the thought that counts, right?"

"Yeah." He flicked his soaked bangs out of his eyes. A stream of water slapped Kurt across his face. "Oh crap. Sorry. I just -"

Kurt reached out and grabbed Sam by the front of his drenched tee shirt. With a strong wrench, he dragged the jock over the threshold and into the Hummel/Hudson, closing the door with a loud snap behind them. Sam's back hit the wall; his eyebrows were arched into his bangs in surprise.

"Ow."

Kurt licked his lips, eyes traveling down Sam's torso. His muscles rippled under his soaked, clingy shirt. "Sorry."

"You don't look sorry." There was a hint of amusement in his voice; Kurt's teal eyes flicked up, meeting Sam's. They were bright, and crinkled slightly at the corners from his lopsided grin.

"I'm not."

And, very suddenly, Sam was advancing, and Kurt's back was pressed flat against the opposing wall. Sam's wet chest was hard against the soprano's; one elbow was folded neatly over Kurt's head, using the wall as leverage as he leaned over the shorter Glee member.

His lips hovered, not close enough for Kurt to steal a kiss, but not far away enough to discourage him completely. His green eyes, bright, traveled carefully down Kurt's body (the soprano was reminded suddenly that he was wearing sweatpants and a tee shirt), drinking in the sight of him, and then flicked all the way up to meet his eyes.

"I didn't think it was possible to have designer sweatpants."

Kurt reached up, tracing the hard, square line of his jaw with a few fingers. "When it comes to fashion, anything is possible."

Sam smiled a little, and kissed one of Kurt's fingertips as they passed over his bottom lip. "As much as I'd like to kiss the smirk off your face right now and tear off those expensive leisure clothes, I did come to talk, Kurt. Really talk."

Kurt's fingers found Sam's muscled chest and gave him the slightest of shoves backward. "We can talk. But if we do, I might talk myself out of ever kissing you again. You understand that, right?"

He did. Because Kurt, despite his questionable choices (choices that, if not made, would have kept Sam far, far away from him) lately, was not the cheap, cheating type. Sam understood that. Kurt took his hand, intertwining their fingers, and led him down a set of stairs, into the basement.

Peering into Kurt's bedroom was like peering into a little piece of his world: clean, neat, and somehow completely chaotic at the same time. He let his eyes travel, taking in every small detail (like the old wooden frame resting on his bedside table, a tattered photo album tucked into the modernistic bookshelf, things that didn't seem to fit in Kurt's beautifully clean room).

Kurt's fingers found Sam's chest again, and he gave the jock a little push toward the couch. "Even though you're soaked, I doubt any of my clothes will fit you. Plus, I've needed a reason to ask Dad for a new couch anyway."

Sam peeled his shirt away from his chest, and then let it fall back against his skin. He basked in the way Kurt's eyes flicked down and tried, very hard, not to drag Kurt onto the couch and kiss the soprano until he was gasping for air (and/or pleasure).

"So." Kurt waved a hand as he settled carefully a cushion away from him. "Talk away."

"I'd be better for you."

He inspected his fingernails. "Debatable."

Sam pushed a hand through his wet hair. "No, it's not debatable, Kurt. It's fact. You're not _happy _with that guy. Isn't that the point of having someone? To be happy?"

"You're going to make me happy?" His eyebrow cocked into his perfect bangs; his disbelieving tone was so discouraging that Sam forgot the rest of his well thought out, flawlessly crafted speech. A little smile tugged at the corner of Kurt's mouth. "You, straight, beautiful, barbie boy are going to make me, high maintenance, openly gay, picked on fashionista?"

"You're just pointing out all the bad stuff."

Kurt let out a dry laugh that seemed to ring across the basement walls. "Which, as a slight pessimist and realist, I'm supposed to do."

"Except you're forgetting something." Sam glanced toward him. Kurt visibly stiffened.

"Am I?"

Kurt glanced away; Sam's eyes were so bright, so intense, that he couldn't look at them anymore. He felt the couch shift and Sam's smell, that intoxicating, manly smell, found its way up his cute button nose. Fingers found his arm, tracing a line down his skin.

Which, in turn, immediately erupted with goosebumps.

Kurt met Sam's eyes.

"I'm the only one that can make you feel like that, Kurt."

And very suddenly, just like every other spontaneous moment they had, Kurt was kissing Sam has hard and as urgently as he could, biting and sucking and tasting for as long and as deeply as humanly possible.

Sam's fingers found the edge of his tee shirt, and in an instant, Kurt's chest and back was bared to the cool basement air, and Sam's mouth was attacking the pale skin that was suddenly exposed. His fingers dug into Kurt's hips, holding him in a vice-like grip, flipping them over so that he was looming over Kurt's lean body.

Taking a moment to breathe, he looked down into Kurt's face, and a smile spread across his face. "So damn beautiful."

And then his lips, hot, crashed down again, sending shivers and fireworks coursing through every nerve in Kurt's body, making him groan into Sam's mouth, making him plunge a hand through the shock of soft blonde hair.

While they kissed, while they touched, why they lost themselves in themselves, Kurt's cell phone vibrated softly in his messenger bag across the room.

Because Blaine had kept his promise.

Because in Blaine's mind, that one phone call was going to solve their problems.

That one phone call was going to make them the happy, perfect couple that they were supposed to be.

That was the one phone call that, while Sam rolled his hips into Kurt's, making him gasp and moan, the soprano was going to miss.

* * *

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	7. Chance

**Disclaimer - I don't own it.**

* * *

Blaine straightened his tie, his fingers working perfectly against the silk. He looked up at the mirror, hazel eyes meeting themselves through the glass. He sighed and pressed at the purple bags hanging beneath them with his fingertips. He'd barely slept the night before.

"You know, you don't have to wear the tie or the jacket anymore. McKinley doesn't have uniforms." He hadn't heard the bathroom door open, but Kurt's pretty face joined his in the cloudy glass.

Blaine looked away, flicking on the hot water with his wrist and shoving both hands under the stream. "It's the only thing I feel comfortable in, especially here."

A hand pressed into his shoulder. "Maybe you should transfer b-"

"Why didn't you call me back?"

The hand withdrew; when Blaine glanced over his shoulder, Kurt was hugging himself tightly. "I...I was busy with schoolwork and Finn needed some help with Alg-"

Blaine shook his curly head. "See, the thing about you, Kurt, is that whenever you lie, you get really red in the face."

Kurt's eyes flicked upward, glancing at his reflection in the mirror, for the first time noticing the patches of color that had started to fill his cheeks.

"I love you, Kurt." In a moment, he paled. Blaine flipped off the water and turned to face his boyfriend, taking a few steps closer. His hands were still damp when he took Kurt's face in them. "I love you more than anything, really. But I refuse to be used."

"I'm not-"

"Kurt." Blaine arched an eyebrow, a soft, sad smile finding its way onto his lips. "Obviously, you're having some internal conflict. I just think...I think you should figure it out."

Kurt pulled his face from Blaine's hands. He opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something, to protest, to prove him wrong.

And with every fiber of being inside him, Blaine wanted him to.

But instead, he closed it, grimaced, a pressed a warm kiss into Blaine's cheek.

The Dalton transfer would deny, if asked, that he leaned into the kiss. That he cherished every second that Kurt's warm lips were pressed into his skin. That he wanted nothing more than to turn his head and give Kurt that fiery, passionate kiss that he'd been holding in.

If asked, he would deny it.

* * *

Sam woke up alone, curled into the fetal position on a surprisingly comfortable couch. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, wincing at the sun that was streaming through the small basement window. The basement air was cool; it brushed against his bare arms, making goosebumps rise on his skin.

He glanced down; pants and belt, still intact, but dry. He sighed and glanced at his watch.

10:30.

He gaped for a moment at the time. It couldn't be possible; Kurt would've woken him up.

Right?

He dug his phone out of his pocket, glancing once at the screen. Then, he was up, searching desperately for his shirt and his car keys.

He found his shirt balled up under Kurt's bed; his keys had slipped under a couch cushion. Fumbling, he rushed out of the Hummel house (he locked the front door with the spare key he located under the 'vous êtes l'accueil ici' floor mat) and drove - at least ten miles over the speed limit - to school.

He caught the end of third period.

"Evans, didn't you wear that yesterday?" Puck arched an eyebrow as the bell rang and the halls were flooded with students.

Sam strode past him, ignoring him, and caught Kurt's arm as he tried to escape into AP English. When Sam whirled the soprano around to face him, he immediately let go of his arm in surprise.

His eyes were red, cheeks blotchy. He sniffled quietly, wiping a manicured hand down his face.

"What happened?"

Kurt's teal eyes flicked down toward his shoes. "I think I was just dumped."

It was really, very hard to keep the elated, incredibly happy expression off Sam's immediately glowing face. He reached out, grabbing Kurt by the front of his fancy shirt, and dragged him into a bone-crushing hug. Once Kurt's damp eyes were tucked carefully into the nape of his neck, Sam allowed himself to beam widely over his shoulder.

Because for the first time, he felt like _maybe _he had a chance with the perfect, incredibly talented soprano that he held in his arms.

Because for the first time, Kurt could be his.

* * *

Blaine watched Blonde Barbie Boy pull Kurt into a close hug (that was much _too _close, in Blaine's opinion) and scoffed.

Because there was no way, _no way_, he was about to lose Kurt to that stupid neanderthal jockhead.

Because Blaine loved Kurt, and Kurt deserved something better than a dim-witted blonde bimbo.

Because Blaine refused to believe that Kurt didn't love him back.

He was just having a momentary lapse of judgment, and soon he would be back in Blaine's arms.

Right?

* * *

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	8. Protest

**Disclaimer - I don't own it.**

* * *

"Sam."

His eyes were trained on Kurt's soft face.

"Sam."

Kurt tipped his head back, laughing at the ceiling, teal eyes bright.

"Samuel."

The countertenor's fingers slipped through his bangs.

"Sam Evans?"

And then suddenly, his eyes flickered. They darkened, laughter dying in his throat. He ducked his head and pulled at a stray thread on his otherwise untouched jacket. Because in stepped Blaine, decked in a soft cotton shirt and jeans that seemed to fit him perfectly in every way.

And very suddenly, Sam was knocked upside the head with a thin notebook.

"Ow! Shit!" He tore his eyes away from them, away from Kurt's distraught face, and met the livid eyes of his girlfriend.

His _girlfriend_.

He felt his heart drop into his stomach.

Because somehow, somewhere, between all of the frenzied kissing and soft promises, Sam had forgotten the incredible dilemma that was Quinn Fabray. He rubbed his temple, pressuring the pain away, and snapped a vicious, "_What?"_

Quinn's eyebrow shot upward in an impossible arch; her arms folded defensively across her chest. "What's your _problem_, Sam? You've barely said two words to me in the past week!"

"Sorry." It fell out of his mouth before she had even finished her sentence. Quinn pressed her lips together, forming a thin line, and reached out to take his hand in hers. The cold metal of her promise ring brushed his palm, and it stung his skin.

Even from across the room, Sam could feel Kurt's sharp teal eyes zeroing in on them.

He could feel Blaine cast them a glance; he could almost _see _the soft smirk forming on the ex-Warbler's lips.

He could feel Quinn shifting in her seat, shooting Kurt a long, hard, completely knowing look that sent a shiver of trepidation down Sam's spine.

Because there was no way, no way at all, that Quinn could know.

But suddenly, Blaine's smile had widened.

* * *

Kurt stuffed his sheet music back into his bag. Mercedes pressed her warm palm into his back as she left, the last of the Gleeks draining into the hallways. His fingers were shaking; after a long practice (with Quinn breathing down his neck and Sam tripping over himself every five minutes), he just felt like passing out on his chic California King.

But there was a little cough from the doorway, calling his attention. It was too polite to be anyone but Blaine; Kurt didn't turn, but let out a cool, "Yes?" as he finished packing up his things.

"Is it possible to forget something like that?" His voice was dripping with tension and sarcasm. Kurt took his time before meeting Blaine's hazel eyes. "Sam has a girlfriend, Kurt."

The countertenor examined his thumbnail. "I'm aware."

"And you're aware that under no circumstances will he leave her, right? You're aware that his reputation relies on their little love fest _lasting_? Ken and Barbie always end up together, Kurt. Even if he gets a little crush on Teresa."

Kurt opened his mouth, ready to point out the flaws of his statement (though, if he was being honest with himself, he hadn't really found any), when the soft slapping of Converse on tile found their ears, and Sam's blonde head ducked into the choir room.

His eyes swept over them, and one eyebrow cocked upward into his bangs.

Blaine suddenly became intensely interested in his shoes.

"Kurt?"

His entire hand was shaking now; he just wanted to leave. "Yes, Sam?"

"I-"

"You're aware that he's just setting you up for failure? For heartbreak?" It was quiet, but just loud enough. Sam's head swiveled toward Blaine, who had opted for staring blatantly into Kurt's blank profile. The jock didn't protest; he instead looked down at the floor.

Kurt felt someone's thick first twist his intestines together.

Because _why _wouldn't he protest?

* * *

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	9. Choice

"Kurt."

The low rumble of Finn's voice wasn't enough to turn his head. He sank deeper into his mattress, wanting to disappear forever.

Everything felt heavy; his bones, his head, his heart.

He had a choice, a hard one, a confusing one, that he just _didn't _want to deal with.

Not then.

He felt the weight on his bed shift and a hand landed on his shoulder, heavy but nearly comforting. He sniffed.

"Kurt, what's going on?" He felt Finn start to rub circles into his back. He distinctly remembered Carol doing the same when Finn came home, crying over Rachel. The gesture, the brotherly, compassionate gesture, made him sit up and push his hair out of his eyes.

"I just had a bad day." Lie. "I can't believe Blaine transferred." Not a lie. Finn nodded like he understood, but his chocolate eyes narrowed like he was trying to put the pieces together in his head, or he was trying very hard not to state the obvious. Kurt sighed. "What, Finn?"

He glanced up, his lips twisted in confusion. "Didn't he transfer for you?"

Kurt buried his head in his hands.

"I mean, that's just what I thought. Since you're together or whatever."

"Not anymore." It was muffled through his palms; Finn pulled them away from his mouth and tried to give him a sympathetic look that turned out to be more of a grimace. Under normal circumstances, Kurt would have laughed.

He didn't, though.

Instead, he dropped his head back into his pillow.

"What's going on with you and Sam?"

Kurt stiffened and turned his head just enough to look up at his step-brother. "What?"

Finn gave a bashful smile. "Don't think I didn't notice him kissing your neck in Glee. Could he be more obvious?"

"Apparently not." Kurt felt his cheeks flush a bright red; Finn's grin widened into a beam.

"So, why are you being all..." Something seemed to dawn on him, something that kept him from finishing his sentence. Kurt felt his heart clench again; Finn was remembering the problem that was Quinn. The circles being rubbed into his back seemed to intensify by ten. "It'll work out."

The words that were supposed to comfort him just made him want to cry.

"Finn, I just kind of want to sleep right now, okay?"

"It's seven."

"Finn."

"Right. Okay. If there's anything I can do - "

"There isn't."

"I mean, if there's anything you want me to tell - "

"Finn."

"Okay. Well. Sleep well or whatever."

The hand left his back, but not before clapping him heavily on the shoulder.

Kurt just sighed.

* * *

Sam let out a little breath that made Quinn's head sink deeper into his stomach.

She twisted her head, just slightly, to glance up at him. She must have seen something in his face, something in his sigh, _something_, because she sat up and hugged her knees. Sam thought she looked like a little girl whose favorite puppy had died in a tragic accident.

He propped himself up on his elbows and braced himself for the words to come.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"Don't lie."

"I'm not." He tried to wrap an arm around her shoulders. She shrugged it off and looked up into the sky, like she was looking for an answer. Sam felt the Fabray's perfectly manicured lawn press hard into his back.

"You are." There was a weakness in her voice that made him sit up, made him want to suddenly confess _everything_.

Confess the confusion.

Confess the experimentation.

Confess his new-found love for her, a new-found respect.

"Quinn." He said it quietly and touched the ends of her silky blonde hair, his fingertips trailing carefully down her back. She leaned into his touch. "I promise, I'd go to the end of the world for you."

She looked over her shoulder at him, reading his eyes. Sam held his breath.

Her mouth pulled upward into the smallest of smiles and that promise seemed to be enough. She rested her head back on his chest and kissed his collarbone.

Sam grinned.

Because he knew, miles away, he had someone else that loved him too.

Having that security, that back-up, felt good.

Because he knew that Quinn had been eying Finn for some time now.

But now, even if she did leave, he'd have Kurt.

As a back-up.

And that felt good.

* * *

The metal of his locker felt cold against his back. Blaine buried his head in his hands.

There was an aching in his chest, _a longing, _a sorrow that was too strong to ignore, even for a second.

He rubbed at the circles under his eyes and sighed. He felt that little glimmer of determination in his chest start to fade.

Because as much as he loved Kurt, as much as he needed Kurt, as much as he knew they _belonged _together, he had absolutely no control over the situation that Kurt had unceremoniously thrown him into.

He saw Finn loping toward him and stiffened.

Seized the remainder of his self control and mustered a dry smile. The quarterback stuffed his hands into his pockets before speaking.

"Kurt's really torn up."

He couldn't find any words to reply, but Finn continued with careful steadiness.

"I mean, he went to bed without moisturizing or bringing me milk or _anything_."

Blaine managed to nod.

"Fix it." His voice was firm. It gave Blaine a little strength. "Fix it, Blaine, or I'll fix you. Okay?"

He couldn't help but grin. Finn's face was so serious, so caring, that the threat came out like a promise.

"I'll fix it, Finn."

* * *

**And the plot thickens.**

**Nice twist, eh? I think it's funny how Sam always ends up an asshole in all my stories.**

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